THE GAUDY SHADOWS Page 4

  “Mrs Logan, may I present your sister-in-law Polly?”

  “How do you do?” Medea said with all the sweetness and insincerity of her mythical namesake.

  “How do you do?” Polly muttered.

  There was a pause. Medea let it last just long enough to impress on the others that she felt it was due to Polly having no idea what to say next, then swept—that was the word—towards the long lounge.

  “Do you mind if I sit down? I’ve had a terrible day. London heat is so stuffy and oppressive, don’t you think?” She posed herself decoratively as she spoke; she must have had model training, Laird deduced.

  “In that case,” he said, “you’d probably care for a drink. Sammy seems to have left us quite a selection.”

  “I’d love one,” Medea smiled. “A Bloody Mary, if you can manage it.”

  Come now. That’s not worthy of you. Laird signalled that with a steady, critical stare, and she had the grace to drop her eyes. As a gibe at Polly’s strict sectarian background the choice of drink was worse than crude—it was cheap.

  But all Laird said was, “Polly, the refrigerator is still on in the kitchen, isn’t it? Perhaps you could bring down some ice cubes.”

  Polly might be unsophisticated, but she wasn’t unintelligent. She was certainly aware of the freezer in the liquor cabinet, because Laird had seen her check it over this afternoon, but she headed compliantly for the kitchen upstairs. And the instant the door closed behind her, Medea addressed Laird in a voice like a tigress’s purr.

  “I take it you’re a friend of Polly’s, Mr Walker?”

  You’re rattled, lady, and I wonder why!

  But aloud Laird only said, “No, of your late husband’s. I met him a couple of years ago. I flew in yesterday and called to see him this morning. I found Polly here and she told me about his death. So I’ve been helping her to make an inventory.” He gestured at the neat piles of paper on the coffee-table.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Medea. “I gather from the solicitors handling the estate that she’s led a dreadfully sheltered life—positively Victorian. Apparently she’s never even been to London before. That’s why I called to see her. I thought she might need some assistance.”

  So hard, if you hit her you’d bust your knuckles. But Laird swallowed that comment too.

  “She strikes me as being a very level-headed young woman. What the Scots call ‘canny’, I believe. By the way, it was as much of a surprise to me to find that Sammy had a wife as it was to find he had a sister.”

  Tension went through Medea like bars of ice, and the artificial warmth left her expression. She said, “The fact that my marriage to Sammy was a failure is hardly a secret. The reasons for it are, and I’d rather keep them that way.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Laird murmured. “I meant I can’t understand why Sammy wanted to keep his marriage secret. To have so lovely a wife ought to make any man proud.”

  She nodded wary acceptance of the compliment. “Were you a close friend of my husband?” she asked.

  “Close? Well, I didn’t know him for long, but in the time we did spend together I guess you could say we became close. That’s why I’m helping Polly out, of course.”

  At that moment Polly re-appeared with the dish of ice, stale but usable, and with apologies for the lack of lemons. Laird fixed Medea her drink. Furnished with it, she changed her manner completely, making friendly inquiries about Polly’s plans and passing on Sammy’s good taste in furniture and art, so that although Laird knew she had decided to retire and re-group he could tell that Polly was wondering whether she had been mistaken in her first reaction to this stranger-relative.

  At last Medea rose. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you at last, my dear,” she said. “I’m sorry Sammy was on such bad terms with his family—I think we might have become friends. Still, it’s never too late, is it? I’m staying at the Rapallo, and I expect to be in town for two or three weeks. Do get in touch, won’t you? I don’t mean if you need help, because I’m sure Mr Walker has everything well in hand, but perhaps we can have lunch together, why not?”

  “Thank you, I’d like it very much.” Polly’s response was cold and distant as wind in winter trees. She hadn’t missed the point that naming the hotel was for Laird’s benefit, not hers.

  “I must be getting along now. But before I go, I would like to take another look at this famous car of Sammy’s. You plan to sell it, I suppose?”

  Another needle: a car like that would hardly be much use to a person like you.

  “Mr Walker has already spoken to the man from the garage along the street,” Polly said with perfect truthfulness and some finality. Laird revised his estimate of her native wit several notches upward.

  “Of course, I don’t know whether Sammy had it in mind when he put down ‘house and contents’…” Medea said. “However, there’s nothing more disagreeable than arguing over wills, is there? Goodbye, Polly—I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  Pointedly Laird opened the door to the stairs.

  In the garage Pentecost was still at work. He had been along the road for a four-gallon jerrycan and a fresh battery. He glanced up on their entrance.

  “Just going to start her up, Mr Walker. I’ll roll her down to the shop and change the oil, see to the tyres, put the battery on charge overnight… Good as new in the morning if you like.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But isn’t it about your quitting time?” Laird suggested.

  “Not to worry about that, sir. Call it my last job for Mr Logan. We were all very sorry when he went. Couldn’t understand it. Just couldn’t understand it.”

  “I see what you mean,” Laird agreed dryly.

  Medea, ignoring the exposed “clockwork”, had gone to peer at the car’s interior, feeling the peccary upholstery, stroking the wood-rim steering wheel.

  “Very much to Sammy’s taste!” she commented.

  “Fast and expensive?” Pentecost murmured, once more for Laird’s hearing only. Laird decided he liked this bird-nosed mechanic.

  “Well!” Medea briskened and made for the door. “Remember what I said, won’t you? Make sure that Polly gets in touch with me at the Rapallo, whether or not there’s anything I can do.”

  She gave a bright icy smile and was gone.

  “Know something, sir?” Pentecost said in the same soft voice as before, screwing down the battery terminals. “This afternoon I learned a lot of things about Mr Logan that I never knew before.”

  “What do you mean?” Laird demanded.

  “Well, sir, they used to say Mr Logan was a skirt-chaser, and I suppose it was true. But I never could help wondering why someone as kind as he was didn’t settle down and start a family. He liked children. Took a great fancy to my little daughter Jean. Used to bring her presents when he put the car in for service. Once said he’d have liked a kid the same as her. And I think today I’ve found out why he never managed it.”

  He gave deft taps to the choke control and starter linkage, and the engine came to thrumming, healthy life.

  SEVEN

  Her encounter with Medea had made Polly sad, as though she were visualising the dimly understood disasters that must have gone towards making Sammy leave his wife and—presumably—pay her to stay out of his way. Probably she had also been required to resume her maiden name. If not, someone might have guessed at the connection and gossip would have spread.

  Why not a divorce? It would have been no handicap in the circles Sammy frequented.

  It was at that point that Laird became hung up. Meeting Medea had provoked a sharp reaction in him. Such a lovely woman was an appropriate wife for a person in Sammy’s position; why should he have concealed his marriage so completely that not even his best friends—let alone his estranged family—heard about it?

  Basing his conclusions on Medea’s behaviour towards Polly—under her surface politeness he was sure he had detected contempt—Laird felt he could make some sound guesses about the
answer.

  And yet, even seven years ago, could Sammy have made such a catastrophic error on so vital a matter as getting married…?

  Laird had no idea. One thing, however, he was absolutely positive about. He found decision hardening in his mind.

  Even those newspaper reports threw doubt on the idea that Sammy simply keeled over and died. In which case there must be people who don’t believe it. I must talk to some of them.

  Something stinks.

  As yet, it was only an itch at the back of his brain, but he would not be able to sleep easy until he had somehow managed to scratch it.

  It was clear that Polly wanted to be left alone now, and after a few minutes Laird realised he had better take the hint. There were a dozen things he had hoped to attend to before leaving, like finding a secure hiding-place for the risqué records, but the chance was gone. Thinking of those records, though, he saw the name of Bitchy Legree in his mind’s eye and gave a thoughtful nod. Bitchy would be a good person to ask about rumours. There were bound to be rumours.

  That brought him to one more question which he had to put before leaving. He said, “Polly—mind if I call you Polly? Since you’re Sammy’s sister, it seems natural.”

  “No—no, I don’t mind.” But she sounded distracted.

  “Who has Sammy’s private papers?”

  “I have some, and the lawyers have the rest. Why?”

  “Forgive me for being so nosy, but I want to set my mind at rest. How did they come to you?”

  She sighed. “The police took away all the letters and papers. Apparently they thought he might be in financial trouble, before they found out it wasn’t poison which killed him. But they said there wasn’t anything helpful. He didn’t keep many private letters, and most of the rest was business correspondence—from his stockbroker, I think. That’s what the lawyers have.”

  It figures. I can’t imagine Sammy as a great letter-writer.

  Laird shrugged and turned to go. On the threshold, he paused.

  “I am sorry about the shock you had when you let me in this morning.”

  A faint flush returned to her cheeks. She said, with a considerable effort at self-control, “It—it is what I thought it was, isn’t it? The thing you brought?”

  “Probably not. It was originally a religious offering.”

  “Religious?” she echoed, wondering. It was plain that curiosity and the Teaching were at war in her mind.

  “Literally. There were certain times when a married couple weren’t supposed to enjoy normal relations. Maybe it had something to do with conceiving children under the wrong astrological sign. Statuettes like these”—he tapped the bulge in his pocket—“were a sign to heaven that the commandment was being kept.”

  She swallowed hard. “Well, different people do have different customs, don’t they? I’m the one who ought to apologise, for being so rude. You have been a great comfort to me today. Especially when Mrs Logan turned up. I don’t know what I’d have done on my own… But she seemed really very friendly.”

  “She’s very attractive,” Laird said judiciously, and left it at that.

  Nine o’clock found him stepping out of a taxi in front of the Lizzie Borden club, a fresh white carnation in the shawl-styled lapel of his midnight-blue jacket, the links he had had made out of a scrap of the bullion he’d recovered glinting at his cuffs. They’d done the premises over since he last visited them in Sammy’s company, but the theme was the same: famous murderers from Nero through Gilles de Retz to Eichmann leered out of frames in the walls, tiny wax simulacra gloating over their wax victims. The doorman bore a remarkable resemblance to Dr Crippen and the assistant manageress, who held court in the lobby, had decided to aim for Charlotte Corday; even the names in the guest-book were entered in red ink.

  Having got past the former with a mixture of gall and charm, Laird said to the latter, “Is Bitchy Legree around?”

  “Bitchy won’t be in until ten, sir,” replied Mademoiselle Corday. “Are you a member here, by the way?”

  “No, I’m—wait a second. Come to think of it, Sammy did buy me a membership. Sammy Logan, that is. But that was two years ago.”

  “Well, for a friend of Mr Logan’s,” the girl said, beaming, “I imagine we could overlook the fact that your membership has lapsed. Though I’d have to ask for the current year’s subscription, naturally.”

  “Ask away,” Laird grunted, and fanned the contents of his billfold. With a flourish she deprived him of ten pounds. He added another pound to the total.

  “When Bitchy does get here, say that I’d like a word, will you? And remember to mention that I was a friend of Sammy’s.”

  In the main room he dawdled through an overpriced meal; whatever it was that kept the customers coming—for the other tables were almost all occupied—it couldn’t be the food. On the other hand the wine was good. He was debating whether to order a new bottle at once or wait a while, when the second chair at his table was abruptly shoved back and there was someone facing him.

  “Was it you who asked to see me—the friend of Sammy Logan’s?”

  He stared. He couldn’t help it. He’d never seen Bitchy Legree before without full makeup, wig and glittering unpractical entertainer’s clothes. Right now, he saw a nearly square face with a determined jawline, eyes under which enormous dark half-moons lay like mascara, a well-tailored jacket and slacks over a plain white shirt.

  Which sex did this creature belong to, anyway? The hair, in a sort of urchin cut, was neutral; the hands were impeccably manicured, the nails shiny with clear varnish but the knuckles prominent and masculine—ambiguous—and under the jacket it was impossible to tell whether there were breasts or merely layers of soft chest-fat.

  “I can only spare you a few minutes. I’m on at ten-thirty.” The voice likewise intersexed: low, but with a huskiness that might well have matched such looks as Medea Logan’s. Laird shovelled the enigma aside.

  He said, “I was just going to order more wine. Will you—?”

  “I said I have to dash. I mean it. What do you want?”

  “All right.” Laird drew a deep breath. “I got in from the States last night. I heard about Sammy’s death this morning. Someone showed me the stories they ran in the papers. I don’t believe it. This evening I met Sammy’s mysterious widow. Now I not only don’t believe it, I want to find out who else doesn’t believe it. And from the time Sammy first brought me here I remembered you were said to know every bit of gossip and scandal in London. What can you tell me about Sammy that I don’t know?”

  A scornful look crossed Bitchy’s face. “What do you want—dirt? The breakdown of his marriage?”

  “Anything that would help. Anything.”

  “Hell, I can give you a choice of thirty stories. He was a secret queer and used to take boy scouts into the country in that silver car of his. His woman-chasing was a cover and his real tastes wrecked his marriage. This is a good one, by the way. It finishes up with one of the boy scouts complaining and him taking a secret South American poison which they couldn’t analyse. Then there’s the one which says he was having an affair with one of the Royals—sex unspecified—and his death was ordered by someone in the cabinet and carried out with a top-secret nerve gas which leaves no traces. Fancy some more? I have plenty.”

  The swift, nervous delivery, so remote from the caressing microphone voice of Bitchy’s cabaret personality, fascinated Laird. He said, “Sure, go on.”

  “You asked for it. He wasn’t the real Sammy Logan. He was Medea Howard’s lover. They conspired to get rid of the uncouth Scottish scrap-metal dealer, forged the deeds of sale for his business, and pocketed the proceeds, a quarter-million apiece. That’s why nothing had been heard of any so-called wife until he was safely dead and she could turn up for the balance of the loot. Only trouble is, you then have to explain how the pseudo-Sammy managed to double his original share and leave the half-million that they actually found. Then there’s the notion that he used scopolamine on his
girls, made them part with family scandals, and used what he learned for blackmail. He leaned on the wrong victim and got his, and the fuzz hushed up the murder because the scandal was too big to put into a court of law.”

  Laird was silent for a moment at the conclusion of this machine-gun recital. He said finally, “De mortuis—”

  “Nothing but shit. His good friends must have hated his guts for being the nice guy he was. Want to see proof?”

  “What kind?”

  “Over there.” Bitchy pointed at a party just settling to a table in the centre of the room. “That’s Reggie and Miriam Flanceau. Sammy was at a party of theirs the night he died. The girl with them—the late-teens blonde in the bum-freezer miniskirt—she’s Courcy Cade. She was Sammy’s last girl. And the other man is Alec Harmadale.”

  “I met him with Sammy last time I was here,” Laird nodded.

  “We used to call him ‘Sammy’s sweeper’ because he picked up so many of Sammy’s used women.” Bitchy breathed hard. “Now I have a song about Sammy. He’s two months dead. I’ll sing it, though ordinarily I scrap my material after at most a couple of weeks. You watch that bunch over there.”

  “What makes you so concerned?” Laird demanded. “Your job is spitting on reputations. They love you for it. They pay you for it. If you have a song about Sammy I’m damned sure you spit not only on his reputation, but his grave.”

  Bitchy’s lip curled. “It’s not the people I take as subjects that matter. It’s the people who applaud. Little dirty minds in big flabby bodies. Press their buttons and they’ll jerk all night. But Sammy was different. I’ll tell you how close I was to Sammy, shall I?”

  Laird searched the inscrutable face for long seconds before he nodded.

  “I told Sammy the secret,” Bitchy said with a mocking grin. “Whether I’m a man or a woman.”

  And the chair was abruptly empty again.

  EIGHT

  At ten thirty-three, to a ripple of applause, the public Bitchy Legree took the stool at the end of the white and gold piano. The transformation was astonishing. The wig was purple, huge swatches of heavy nylon making no pretence to resemble human hair. Dangling below the fantastic tresses were gaudy rhinestone ear-rings. The dissipated half-moons under the eyes had gone, beneath a layer of pancake makeup as crude and deliberately obvious as the wig. Their virtual images had appeared on the upper lids, which were coated with crimson glitter-dust. Half-inch nylon lashes jutted out over the cheeks. The mouth had been narrowed with a lip-brush to make it thin and cruel. A Dietrich-like gown of layer upon layer of black lace still left the eternal question poised ahead of its tentative answer: man in drag, woman not?